Go West, Inspector Ghote. H. R. f. Keating
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And there were, too, cardboard boxes, hundreds of them, brightly coloured, which he surmised must have contained things to eat, those hot-dogs or whatever it was you got at that Mc—yes, McDonald’s.
How stupid he had been over that. What an advantage he had given to Two Thousand Rupees a Day, Plus Expenses. To the Californian.
He shut his eyes once more to blot out the thought.
But he could not keep them closed for long.
Suddenly, however, the lulling tempo of the big speeding car was checked. Ghote sat up, shaking his head and looking all around him. He had slept. He must have done. Because they had left the freeway and were going at a much reduced speed along a quite narrow blacktop road.
“Just about one mile to go, Gan boy,” Fred Hoskins said, his hammer voice bringing home to Ghote that sleep had done nothing to cure his thudding head. “I estimate our journey time at one hour and thirty-eight minutes. Some driving.”
“Oh, yes. Good. Very good. Fred.”
Ghote felt a sudden hollow in the pit of his stomach. In just a few minutes’ time he might find himself confronting the Swami With No Name. And what would he say to him? How would he be able, in these strange, upsetting surroundings, to decide whether or not he was talking to a true swami, a yogi, a person who had acquired powers that could be at their highest nothing short of miraculous? Or, if the man was not a yogi, would he even be able, feeling wretched as he did, to catch him out in his fraud? Because, no doubt about it, if he was a fraudster he would be a devilishly cunning one.
And which of those two alternatives would it be preferable to find?
He wriggled on the broad leather seat of the monster car.
Perhaps, after all, he would be lucky and be prevented from meeting this adversary straight away. Perhaps it would be only Nirmala Shahani that he would have to tackle. A mere girl, whose obstinacy surely would not be too difficult to overcome, even if it took some days of persuasive talk.
And the ashram, what would that be like? Would it be a familiar Indian place, even though that sort of establishment was one he ordinarily fought shy of? A cluster of huts, with the swami’s a little bigger than the rest? A tree to give some shade? A kitchen with sharp-smelling cowdung smoke rising up from it? Disciples in orange robes or orange saris sitting cross-legged on the ground listening to the long, sweet discourse of their guru, with a goat or two and some chickens wandering in among them?
Or would it be an American ashram? Something hard indeed to picture, but full of the great, tall creatures he had seen, confident, swift-moving, dealing with religion in just the same way as they dealt with the business of leaving the airport or the play of jogging or of tennis?
Would such people stand like guards keeping Nirmala away from him? Would they call in the cops when he tried to approach her? Accuse him of attempted abduction?
Or would they leave the swami to deal with him? Either by powers there could be no resisting, or by some double-dealing that, here alone, he would find hard to counter?
Fred Hoskins had brought the car almost to a halt. There was a gateway set a little back in the fence bordering the road and beside it a large white signboard with painted on it in rose-pink letters the single word ASHRAM.
Ghote swallowed, dry-mouthed, His head gave a series of pain-darting thumps.
They turned in through the open gate and went slowly along a dirt track. Soon, just before they entered the shade of the tall, dark green redwood trees that rose all the way up the ridge in front of them, they saw a low, circular, log-walled hut. Fred Hoskins brought the car to a halt in front of it.
“We have now arrived at the ashram Visitors’ Centre,” he announced, his voice booming even more loudly in the surrounding quiet. “This was the site of my interview with the Shahaneye girl. An interview, as you will recall, during which she informed me clearly that she never wished to return to Bombay, India. I came to the conclusion at that time, thanks to my training as a member of the L.A.P.D., that the witness was speaking the entire truth.”
“Yes,” Ghote said. “But, of course, I must see her also. And the swami too.”
“It’s what you’re here for, Gan. I suggest you now proceed into the Visitors’ Centre and start your inquiries. I’ll stay here as your back-up. Are you packing anything?”
Ghote, half-way out of the huge car, turned back.
“My suitcase, is it?” he asked, more than a little fazed. “You think I should take it with me?”
“A piece, Gan. A piece. I asked if you’re packing a piece.”
A feeling of total bewilderment descended on Ghote.
“Please,” he asked, “a piece of what?”
The look of pained dismay that he had seen on the towering private eye’s great beef-red face when they had first met reappeared and was even more explicit.
“A piece, Gan. Are you carrying a gun?”
“No,” Ghote said. “No, I am not. But why should I? I cannot take the girl away from here at gunpoint only. I am a policeman, not one of your gangster fellows.”
“A police officer,” Fred Hoskins said, his booming voice incredulous. “A cop without a piece?” He heaved a tremendous sigh. “Well, it’s your case, I guess, Inspector Goat.”
Ghote turned away and stepped clear of the car.
Yes, it was his case. Whatever way it had been thrust on to him, it was his case. If Nirmala Shahani was being detained at this place wrongfully, whether through some mystical power or by means of trickery, then he was going to find out exactly what had been done to her and take her away with him back to her rightful home. Ranjee Shahani had been certain his daughter was an unwilling victim, and even though influence had been used to secure altogether special attention, it was still right that there should be an investigation.
And investigation was his job. He would do it. Here in this extraordinary, burstingly wealthy land, just as he would do it in the familiar heights and depths of dusty Bombay.
He marched across towards the Visitors’ Centre.
When he got to within a few yards of the building he saw that its double doors were standing wide open. Ridiculously, the fact at once disturbed him. He saw himself as confronted by some jungle monkey-trap. The moment curiosity had lured him inside, he felt, those doors would come flapping closed behind him and he would be, not shipped off to some money-splurging research establishment across the other side of the world, but certainly somehow prevented from carrying out the task he had come here to do.
He gave his steadily thudding head a little angry shake. What absurdities entered in when the mind was disoriented.
A few brisk steps took him inside the little building. To his surprise there was no one there. He looked round. The walls were largely hidden by clothes racks on which hung loose orangey-coloured garments, each marked with a prominent price-tag. A pair of large glass-fronted cupboards also contained various labelled items for sale. ELECTRONIC MEDITATION TIMER, he read. SHANTI BOARD GAME (NON-COMPETITIVE), YOGA PANTS (GUARANTEED MADE IN INDIA)—the price asked for those simple garments made him raise his eyebrows—MEDITATION EARPLUGS (NATURAL WAX), FOLDING MEDITATION BENCH (CUSHION EXTRA)”
The middle of the hut was occupied by an eight-sided table on which various brightly-coloured pamphlets had been spread in neat piles. Up against one of the piles, he saw, there was a piece of card with something written on it in scrawled letters. He bent forward more closely and read.
SWAMI IS GIVING A DISCOURSE IN THE MEDITATION HALL THIS AFTERNOON. ALL VISITORS WELCOME. FOLLOW THE PATH UP THE HILL.
He felt a jet of pleasure. The Swami With No Name giving a discourse. It would provide a first-class opportunity to take a good, long look at the fellow while he himself was unobserved. Just what he wanted.
And—suddenly things were going his way—there